Devil In Tartan. Julia London

lifted her hands in surrender. “But there are no people. No’ even a ship,” she said.

      It was just his bloody luck to be humiliated by a woman who also happened to be an art critic. “Diah, you’re a thief with no appreciation for art,” he said dismissively.

      “We’re no’ thieves,” she said as she resumed her seat. “Had it no’ been for our emergency, we’d no’ want your ship if you presented it to us with ribbons tied to the masts,” she said pertly.

      Aulay snorted. “If you’re no’ thieves, then who are you?”

      “It doesna matter—”

      “Aye, on the contrary, it does indeed. You canna hide. I heard the giant call you Lottie when you came on board. The man there bragged of his Livingstone stock. You are Lottie Livingstone, no’ Lady Larson,” he said, spitting out the name. “Are you pirates, then? Is it my cargo you want?”

      “Pirates!” She laughed, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “If we are pirates, Captain, then we are the worst of all!”

      “Then why have you stolen my ship?” he demanded. Why have you humiliated me? Why have you ruined this chance to save the life I love?

      “We’ve no’...” She sighed and shook her head. “On my word, I tell you the truth, Captain Mackenzie. Please try and think of it as merely borrowing your ship, aye? I told you, we had no choice. You’ll leave us at port and then...then go about your business.”

      She said it hopefully, as if she desperately wanted to believe that could happen. He was quick to disabuse her of that idea. “That’s absurd. You surely donna believe that I’ll no’ avenge the unlawful taking of my ship, aye?”

      Her hopeful expression fell. She looked at the old man. “Then what should I do?”

      “Pardon?”

      She shifted her gaze to Aulay. “I could use your advice, aye?”

      Aulay scoffed at the suggestion.

      “I donna know what to do, Captain,” she said, sounding a wee bit desperate. “I can scarcely believe what I’ve done. Tell me what to do—you’re a man of great experience—”

      “You honestly think I’ll advise you?” he asked incredulously.

      “No,” she said, her brows furrowing. “But I hoped. I’m in water well over my head, I am, and I could use a wee bit of proper counsel. I’ve none, you might have noticed.”

      Hardly proper counsel, seeing as he was the one bound. But it occurred to him he could perhaps use this opportunity to his advantage. “Where are you bound, then?”

      “For Aalborg.”

      Aulay’s heart seized. That was the wrong direction. “Denmark,” he said.

      She nodded.

      “Why there?”

      “We’ve...we’ve something to sell,” she said hesitantly.

      “Aye, and what is that? The contents of my hold?”

      “No!” she said, affronted.

      “What else would you have to sell, then? What could you possibly have that must be sold in some small port of Denmark, other than what is in my hold?” he pressed her. “I’m carrying wool and salted beef. My hold was full before you tricked us with your...” He almost said hair. “Tell me the truth, lass—do you mean to sell it?”

      “For the love of all that is holy, your goods are where you put them, aye? At least in part.” She abruptly came to her feet.

      “What do you mean, in part?” he demanded.

      “There are crates yet,” she said, waving off his questions as she began to pace. “Some of it...mostly wool, I think...well, it was lost because...” She gestured with her hand in a manner of someone searching for a word.

      “Because?”

      “Because there was some confusion on board among my men about where we might put our cargo,” she said quickly. “I stopped them before they threw over more than a wee bit.”

      Aulay stared at her, trying to make sense of it.

      “I beg your pardon, but there was quite a lot of panic,” she said, and stole a quick glance at the man on the bed before moving closer to him to whisper, “Our ship was sinking. It sank.”

      “You brought your cargo on board my ship?” he asked, pushing to his feet. “What cargo? What did you bring?”

      “Shhh,” she cautioned him, pointing at the bunk.

      “Slaves?”

      She gasped with indignation. “Of course no’!”

      “What, then?”

      “Things! Sundry things.”

      “Liar,” Aulay said coldly. “Sundry things that must be sold in a foreign port? Sundry things that have caused a flush to creep into your fair cheeks? Things that your dying father insists you carry on rather than return for help?”

      “He is no’ dying!”

      “What is it you mean to deliver to Aalborg?” he pressed.

      “It has no bearing on you—”

      “It has every bearing on me, you wee fool! I would know what I carry on my ship, aye? I would know if illegal whisky is in my hold! I know a ship running from the excise man when I see it. That was a royal ship you set on fire—”

      “Entirely accidental! And they fired first!”

      “You’d no’ be the first to run illegal whisky from Scotland’s shores. But damn you, you are the first to throw my cargo overboard to make room for it!”

      Her eyes darkened. “No’ all of it. As I said, I stopped them. Most of what we brought is on your deck.”

      “Mi Diah,” he muttered and sagged against the wall. Now he was carrying illegal goods in plain sight? Aulay seethed with indignation. His was not the indignation of the righteous, no—it wasn’t so long ago that his family had resorted to running goods around the royal navy and excise bounties the crown would impose on imports. They’d felt forced to do it, felt it was the only way they could provide for their clan in those years before the Jacobite rebellion, when the crown imposed a usurious tax their clan could ill afford on the most basic of necessities.

      But they had not thrown over anyone’s legitimate goods to make room, and they’d not stacked illegal cargo on their bloody decks! Worse, much worse, if Aulay lost this cargo, if he failed to do what he’d promised William Tremayne and deliver it to Amsterdam, he couldn’t bear to think what might happen to his family’s livelihood. He couldn’t bear to think of the mix of anger and pity in his father’s eyes.

      He turned a cold gaze to the woman who was pacing, the hem of his greatcoat dragging the floor behind her. Her brow was furrowed and she seemed lost in thought. Bloody whisky runners. His mind raced with the necessity to free himself, to salvage what he could before all was lost.

      The lass stopped pacing. She turned to face him, and damn her if she didn’t look almost tearful. “Help me,” she said softly. “Tell me what to do!”

      “Help you pirate my own ship?”

      She groaned heavenward. “You’ll have your ship as soon as we are to Aalborg!”

      He stared at her, his thoughts racing. “If we are to Aalborg, you’ll need my men to sail us there, aye? Best you bring Beaty in so that he might chart the course.” That was a lie—Beaty could navigate by the stars overhead, and it was almost impossible to chart a course when the day was as bleak as this. For all Aulay knew, Beaty might have already turned this ship about. But he hoped she would give Beaty entry into the cabin.

      She